


none of us are going back

by archivizt



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Blood, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-01-23 03:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18541222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archivizt/pseuds/archivizt
Summary: frank feels unmoored, as if not all of him was put back into whatever his existence is now, as if all the important pieces of himself are still bloodspray against a picnic blanket and his soul wrapped around maria's and his heart in his children's hands. he feels incomplete.frank isn't sure what he's searching for.





	1. i would like to meet you all in heaven

**Author's Note:**

> this was gonna be romantic and shit but i have made the executive decision its just gonna be them being dudes, just bros being bros. mainly because the way ive started writing frank and they're both too out of it to actually have any sort of feelings for each other. alsp franks a ghost and idk how this would work tbh.

there's gunfire crackling in the park, and the soft noise of bullet casings hitting concrete overlaps the screaming and crying and the thud of lifeless bodies hitting the ground. 

there is red, the blood winding through blades of grass, seeping into dirt, staining his hands, and there is black, the gleam of guns under the noon sun. 

there's the stench of death and gunpowder and fear and so many more familiar things, things he'd left behind, things he was done with.

there is the barrel of a gun, there is his daughter lifeless in his arms, there is his son and wife sprawled just inches away, dead.

there's a finger flexing against a trigger, steady, calm.

there is fear, there is anger, there is acceptance.

there's a bullet in frank castle's head.

 

* * *

a whisper of a touch rouses him, fingers drifting over a small scar on his lip. a soft breath ghosts across his face and the warm cradle of morning sun through their window warms his skin.

“good morning, sleepyhead,” maria whispers, leaned in close, her lips pressing to his for a fleeting moment.

a lazy smile, his eyes still closed, and frank rolls towards her, moving to brush his fingers through her hair as something golden and brilliant swells in his chest like a song.

before he can pull her closer, her image wavers, distorts until its replaced with only the darkness of his closed eyes and the cold seeping under his skin.

his eyes snap open, searching for her face, for the light perfume lacing her dress, for the brush of her hands, soft and sure, across his brow. but maria is gone, and in her place there is only burning white sunlight and grass beneath his shoulders. 

he's in the park again, warm and relaxed for a fraction of a moment, where it's his kids running towards him, kites soaring behind them, lisa with her arms outstretched and frank jr. on her heels, but then they are running past him, and they are not his children, and frank is alone in a park full of families just like his.

his jaw aches from gritting his teeth together, packing the tears and the sharp, incessant ache down under resolute stubbornness. 

the sun is still beating down through waving leaves, and there is still laughter, and his heart breaks with missing them. he doesn't stay for much longer.

by the time he makes it onto the concrete sidewalk just outside the park, the ticking feeling of something wrong has rooted itself into the back of his head.

no one's gaze had even flickered towards him during the short walk, not even the lady whose dog had nearly broken its leash trying to run towards frank. the sun wasn't warm where it hit his bare arms, the wind didn't make his eyes water as it blew against his face, he couldn't hear his own footsteps, his own heartbeat. 

but when frank presses a hand to his own chest, it feels solid and warm, real, normal. 

something is wrong.

 

* * *

it takes him ten more minutes of detached panic to reach a hand to his head and draw away fingers damp with blood.

 

* * *

frank isn't sure what to do with himself after that.

he feels unmoored, as if not all of him was put back into whatever his existence is now, as if all the important pieces of himself are still bloodspray against a picnic blanket and his soul wrapped around maria's and his heart in his children's hands. he feels incomplete.

so he walks.

watches the sun set behind new york's skyline, watches people hurry past him, watches until he finds himself in front of the park again, with tears in his eyes and his hands in his pockets. there is a scrap of crime scene tape still stuck to a tree, and frank's stomach turns, heart rising in his throat.

he starts walking again.

 

* * *

frank doesn't know what he hears to make him stop, but he knows there's something in the alley, breathing low and labored, hidden by the shadows there.

there's the twist of a boot through water, barely a splash, shifting weight, pushing themself up as armor scrapes against the alley's wall. a groan as they right themself, and frank, creeping closer through the maze of grime on the ground, spots blood red eyes and lips stained the same twisted into a grimace. he takes in the heaving chest, more blood, and a mottled bruise growing on what he can see of their cheek before they're clamoring up the fire escape, boots crashing on metal.

the sound echoes in frank's hollow chest, clicking with memories of being overseas, the slack-jawed moment of pain before gritting his teeth and standing up, and it overlaps, just for a second, the sound of children's laughter and his wife's voice, drowning them out and masking the bleeding hole in his heart.

he scrambles up the fire escape not five seconds later. 

a trail of blood scattered between buildings leads frank through hell's kitchen, past a few beaten bodies, and onto a final roof. there's an access door nearby and the man sitting on the ledge, head tipped to the side and red armor nearly black in the night.

 

* * *

 

the man goes inside at sunrise, taking the horned helmet off as the roof-access door swings closed behind him.

frank sits and watches the sun rise, desperately missing maria's voice drifting through summer air, songs he barely knew the words to falling from her lips, missing lisa's arms around his neck, her too small hands trying to follow his on the guitar, missing frankie in his arms, head tipped back and laughing like the stars, bright and free and everlasting. 

desperately missing the warmth of the sun against his face.


	2. but there's a litany of dreams that happens somewhere in the middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _when he sleeps, frank dreams of maria, of the children, backlit gold and smiling, their hands in his, smiles on their faces. he dreams of his grip on them slipping, of watching them fall into nothingness._

frank measures the hours in sunlight, footsteps, and the ache swelling in his chest. measures the nights by the man coming and going through the roof-access, silent as a whisper.

during the day, if frank is sitting close enough to the door, he can hear what's going on in the apartment and imagine that maybe he is still alive, waiting on a friend under the sun's watchful eye.

the illusion never lasts long.

the man always leaves, whether through the front in civilian clothes or off the roof in the suit, and frank is alone, unsure of why he's still there but unwilling to leave.

 

* * *

 

when he sleeps, frank dreams of maria, of the children, backlit gold and smiling, their hands in his, smiles on their faces. maria is leaned over him, her hair falling like a curtain around them until the world disappears and all he can see is her. lisa is on his shoulders, little fingers twisted through short hair, and frankie is in his arms, laughing as frank hauls them around the living room.

he dreams of his grip on them slipping, of watching them fall into nothingness as he's trapped here, not alive but not granted the freedom of death.

he wakes to two people on the roof, the man and a woman with dark hair and a shark's smile. she seems relaxed, legs crossed casually at the edge of the building. the man is tense, drawn like a bowstring, voice caught between sadness and resigned anger when he tells her to leave.

frank watches, feeling like he's intruding, as her eyes sadden for a fraction of a second before she whispers, "goodbye matthew," and leaps in a graceful arch off the roof.

a few long moments after she drops out of sight, the man, matthew's shoulders relax, and he breathes a shuddering, weary sigh that resonates down through frank's core. he looks tired, exhausted.

as frank watches him go back inside, the tense line of his shoulders returns.

 

* * *

 

he hears someone call him matt from the apartment the next day, desperate, pleading, broken.

 

* * *

 

he sits down on the roof's edge as the sun is setting. the light glints off his suit and glows blood red. his head is cocked to the side, face turned west.

"you don't have a heartbeat," he says to the empty space in front of him.

frank sits down too, legs hanging off the building's edge. he stares at the sun as it purples and changes, casting color into the darkening sky. "i was shot in the head," he says, "i'm pretty sure i'm dead."

matt turns, red lenses of the mask aimed just over franks shoulder. a few seconds pass before his expression twists for a moment, not annoyed but definitely displeased.

"why are you here then?"

frank feels empty staring into the sunset, like what's left of his soul on earth is being pulled toward it unerringly. matt's mask catches the light again, at a different angle, and the red lenses flash black as night.

"i dont know."

 

* * *

 

it gives frank something to think about so many hours later, in his lonely expanse of new york skyline, watching the sun rise with tired eyes.

his family is dead now, and they'll be dead tomorrow and the day after, reduced to blood patterns on picnic blankets and crime scene tape still hanging in the quiet wind of the park. three gravestones in a nearly full lot, his huddled close beside them.

he hopes, prays that they are at rest.

then he stares again at the rising sun, swallows his grief in the only ways he knows how: with heaving gasps and gritted teeth and his own nails biting crescent moons into his palms, reflections of the silver sliver fading in the morning light behind him.

and frank is still achingly alone, even as the city wakes around him, its pulse rising from the streets, beating through his chest almost like a heart.

 

* * *

 

time paces by on muffled, empty footsteps as frank buries the flaring need for revenge under moonlight and the thrill of falling, windows speeding past and the ground rushing towards him until he's standing upon the roof again, mind racing too fast to focus.

he buries it under following matt while he's wearing the suit, running over the empty spaces between buildings, watching as blood drips off clenched fists and bruises spread under mottled skin. it makes frank itch for a fight, makes him feel like there's adrenaline pumping through his rotting veins and life beating in his decomposed heart.

buries it deep and bites his tongue without feeling the pain, at least until they're in an alley, all dank and dark and damp with mold, and matt's back is turned as he fights against two men, and a third is there on the other side of the alley with a gun raised, grip firm and unshaking, and frank's teeth grind with fear and he's moving before he can truly think about it.

for a second, he feels the chill of the night air, the mugginess of the alley thick in his lungs, and his hand connects with chilled metal and his shoulder slams into the guys chest and frank is frozen, fingers still wrapped around the gun, eyes glued to the man he'd just sent flying.

he can feel everything in the few, winding moments after he slammed into the guy, then the world snaps back into place around frank and he's empty.

drained again of the sensation of air against his skin and the phantom thud of his heart.

just a whisper of existence, incorporeal and empty empty empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk when the next installation of this will be but :) i havent been able to write much lately.
> 
> let me know what you think in the comments or on [my tumblr](https://daredvvil.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> titles from snow and dirty rain by richard siken.
> 
> please leave a comment! or come talk to me on [tumblr](https://daredvvil.tumblr.com)!


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